Like Cats and Dogs
by spiffingly
Summary: M!Hawke/Anders/Fenris triangle. A gravely wounded Hawke forces Fenris to turn to his least favorite apostate for help.


[[First Dragon Age writing...ever. Advanced apologies for any suck. Takes place partway through Act III.]]

I

Something in the range of half a dozen dead templars littered the scene. The night was more than balmy- suffocating in a wet, stifling, unrelenting heat even as the sun was becoming an ever more distant memory. The heavy odor of blood permeated the air, as if it weren't heavy enough to begin. Fenris could scarcely be more displeased.

He was, unfortunately enough, unable to derive the same pleasure as some of his companions could in response to a pile of dead templars. They were honorable men, he would reason internally, fighting to protect those too weak to protect the world from themselves. Those thoughts came to him in many fights, however this was the exception. He couldn't feel remorse over the weight of Hawke's body against his.

The trap that lured them there had been no more clever than any of the others. An anonymous letter arrived to Hawke's estate, pleading his help in a personal matter as mundane as any other. As word was spreading through Kirkwall of his exploits, enemies were jumping at the bit to take advantage of Hawke's good will. Fenris could see it as his friend's downfall from a mile away. He never spoke his concerns, merely followed...protected. He relished the idea of being a silent guardian to the man who had rapidly become the most important in his life. Words failed to actions, though he prided himself on a way with the former. He could win Hawke's affection with actions before that damned mage ever could with his superfluous manifesto.

That Maker-damned mage; the mere thought made his blood boil. He considered at length ways he could pin their current predicament on him. He was bold and careless, he probably had templars trailing the two without even the thought to glance over his shoulder. The apostate, his accidental brother-in-arms, was the manifestation of everything he hated about mages. He was dangerous and weak, a self-admitted abomination who was allowed to live and prosper regardless. Fenris wouldn't be surprised if the mounting tension between Kirkwall's mages and templars snapped in response to Anders' foolishness alone, a thought that ran a chill down his spine.

What was worse, that cursed abomination may be the only one who could help Hawke in the state he lay now. The battle at face value had been no more challenging than any of the others. It wasn't until Hawke caught glance of his own brother lingering at the edges that the tables turned. Fenris was acutely aware of their strained relationship. He could empathize given his own short, devastating relationship with the sister he had quite nearly forgotten he ever had. He knew the sting of familial betrayal and he didn't blame Hawke for distraction. More, he blamed himself for not properly compensating. While the guilt was near overwhelming, paying it mind just now would help no one.

"Hawke," he gave his companion a small jolt in his arms, to which Hawke responded with a low grumble and a throaty cough. Blood spattered over his chin and stained his lips at the attempt for air, and Fenris felt true panic begin to set in. This was no time for pride, and as much as he would have paid to see Anders the one dying, such was not the case. He adjusted the broken man in his arms, whispered something in a tongue Hawke would not have understood even if he were fully conscious, and forced himself to shaky feet. Anders was, for all the damnation it might entail, their only hope. Fenris could already feel regret as he headed, just as quickly as his protesting legs would allow, for the clinic.

II

The process of restoring Hawke to some semblance of health was a particularly trying one. The panic that overcame Anders when he saw the bloodied, broken body of the man he could quite confidently say he loved was apparently not enough stress. Fenris made no qualms about reminding the terrified healer that, should Anders fail to repair Hawke, he would take great pleasure in stilling the mage's heart as well.

"You're healing him, not pleasuring him, would you get to work?" Fenris had growled while Anders delicately peeled back layers of blood-matted fabric from torn flesh. He hissed something right back about not skinning the poor man and continued the painstaking process. There was nothing comfortable about leaning over your dying love while the rival for his affection criticized your every move.

There was only so much magic could do.

Cracked ribs, deep gouges, a thoroughly broken arm...the list could go on, and it seemed to for miles. Neither man was fully pleased with Hawke's sustained state of disrepair when Anders stepped away from the cot. Wounds could be mended, bleeding stemmed, and some semblance of relief granted to mile-deep aches, but the process was not perfect and the recovery period would be weeks at best. He would live, though, and Anders prided himself on this much. Fenris refused to reveal his relief.

"Surely, you can do better than that." Anders was hardly surprised by the criticism, but his eyes still narrowed into a harsh glare against Fenris.

"If you thought another could do more, you'd not have brought him here," he reasoned in return. The idea that Fenris may actually trust him meant little, "had you been more careful, he wouldn't be in this state to begin."

Fenris growled again. The mage was testing his patience and, quite expertly, playing his guilt. What had happened back then could just have easily happened had anyone else been there; Anders, Varric, with the prospect of Carver on the lines there were no guarantees regardless of support. He wouldn't bother to say it out loud, though. He nursed at the bottle Anders had offered in the moments they had not been full at each other's throats. The taste was dry and bitter and just enough to keep him quiet.

"What happened out there?" Anders broke the silence, his eyes still locked to Hawke. The bearded mage rested more comfortably than before, evoking thoughts of angels in both enamored men's minds. It could be hours of this awkward silence before he slipped an eye open. The thought made Anders utterly ill.

"There was a distraction," Fenris paused, considered the implications of sharing even the smallest detail with Anders, then conceded to continue with a sigh, "Carver."

"His brother did this?" Anders was propelled to his feet, a sudden burning in the pit of his stomach, "And you allowed it!"

"Carver did not attack. He distracted," Fenris stood as well, instinctively defensive, "stand down, mage. I have no desire to kill you while he still ails." As a matter of fact, he would have loved to kill Anders in any situation, but he couldn't foresee it endearing him to Hawke in this moment. That didn't make the sick fantasy of reaching into his chest and giving a proper good squeeze any less enticing.

"It's a wonder you didn't help them capture him!" Anders' hands clenched into fists and he took a long stride closer to Fenris. Quietly, internally, he made note that he should quiet himself. He could feel the familiar stirring in his chest, the threat that his hands would soon cease to be his own. He did not step back, though, hissing through clenched teeth as Fenris approached in return.

"Had I, he may not be in this state," Fenris reasoned back. He could not push the thought completely from his mind. The life of an apostate is a life of danger and the promise of a young death. Hawke did not deserve that, and he certainly did not deserve this. Going in peacefully, there may still have been a chance for mercy. He may still be allowed the life of a circle mage. He may be allowed to retain his soul. The threat of tranquility was far from idle and one that, for this one mage, Fenris could not stomach.

"You would sacrifice his freedom, for the sake of what?" his eyes flashed cyan, expression changed at once. The timbre of his voice dropped and a fist closed around Fenris' arm, "The circle will never understand the plight of mages! They will not stop until they are all dead or tranquil! You say you love him, but you would throw him to the wolves."

Fenris did not waste a second to gain defense and, in a swift motion, turned and pinned Anders to the nearest wall. The heel of his palm dug between the abomination's ribs, the heart drumming back defiantly little more than a taunt, begging to be destroyed.

"I would save him from becoming a monster, as no one cared enough to do for you." Fenris spat, hand pressing further to the point that he felt an ominous cracking beneath it. He would do it, there was not a question in his mind. He would kill this beast before it had a chance to hurt any one.

"You would claim to love him, but only so far as to lead him into slaughter! I will not allow the death of another mage!" His hand snapped to Fenris' throat, the room lit with the flickering light as Vengeance enveloped him completely. The elf did not hesitate a moment, scars searing with lyrium burn as his fist clenched the loose fabric of Anders' robe.

There was a flash, blinding and sudden, and a moment later it was done. Fenris found himself crumpled and whimpering, aching back against the wall and cheek on a dirt floor. Anders lay similarly at the opposite end of the makeshift clinic, mewling in defeat. It took more than a moment before either could piece together what had just happened. Anders' mind still spun after Justice's intrusion, while Fenris was dizzied by the impact to the wall.

"How am I meant to get any rest if the two of you can't behave for even an hour's time?" It was Hawke who spoke, eyes harsh on one man then the other. He sat hunched at the edge of the cot, pain worn outwardly on his aching frame. He dreaded to think what would happen had he not been able to conjure the blast to part the two.

Neither of the other two spoke, both thoroughly guilty as they had been caught red-handed. Anders, at length, muttered something of an apology. Fenris followed suit, though neither lifted themselves from the ground. Fenris flattened himself onto his back and let a final low groan rumble through his throat. Anders had, at least, sat himself up against the wall. He still looked little more than a pathetic heap in his corner, guilty for more than one infraction.

Hawke slowly, achingly lowered himself back to his cot. He turned his back to the two, careful to hide the wicked smile on his lips. He did love it when they fought over him.


End file.
